


Schrödinger's Scientist

by kuolema (salainen)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, Necromancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 17:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salainen/pseuds/kuolema
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos is dead. He doesn't stay that way.</p>
<p>Originally written for/posted on the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Schrödinger's Scientist

The one who brings him in is wearing Cecil's face, but it's not Cecil. Cecil never had skin like ash or hair like bleached bones or eyes like the noonday sun. He was never surrounded by the blackness of the void like he was standing in a tear in the fabric of reality and he certainly never kept distorting like a staticky TV set, a demagnitizing computer monitor, a worn-out videotape.

No, the person who brings in Carlos' body is not Cecil. They're just borrowing him for a moment. His consciousness couldn't have handled it anyway.

They carry the corpse through the hospital hallways, into the elevator, down to the basement, where the more "experimental" procedures are carried out. The office of one such doctor has its door kicked in and a body unceremoniously dropped into one of its chairs.

"Yes?" he says. His eyes widen exponentially upon seeing the face of his visitor.

"You will assist us," it says, showing a mouthful of needle-like teeth. "This being requires revivification."

"What?" the doctor exclaims, seemingly having recovered from the initial shock. "You can't just bring a body down here and demand something like that! There are _procedures_ for this kind of thing!"

"You will assist us," the thing repeats, Cecil's even voice beginning to splinter at the edges. "This being cannot remain in this state."

"Like I said, I _can't_ do anything without the proper authorization! Do you know how many people need to sign off on something like this? Usually we have it set up _before_ someone even dies!"

"Do not presume to tell us what is and is not. You will return him to this plane of existence." It lays a hand on Carlos' forehead and gently brushes his hair out of his face, a fragment of Cecil's mind rising to the surface. "He is precious to our Voice. Our Voice is precious to us. We will not lose him to such a small matter as _grief_."

"B-but --"

This time, when it speaks, it does so with the voice of the Legion, the voice of a hundred thousand abominations from beyond space and time, the voice of Night Vale. This time, when it glitches, it does not resume the basic form of Cecil Baldwin, but shows as much of its true form to the doctor as possible without breaking his sanity irreparably. 

Needless to say, they do not show him much.

"You will comply. You are powerless to refuse. Your superiors are powerless to refuse you. We are Night Vale, and we have spoken." It blinks all of its eyes, slowly. "Make haste, Doctor."

* * *

They reform Cecil's body in the breakroom of the radio station and leave it there. He won't remember ever having left the studio.

* * *

Carlos awakes with a start, in his own bedroom. His first thought is that he shouldn't be in there. His second is that he shouldn't have woken up at all. He's no doctor, but he knows he was losing blood fast back at the bowling alley, and even in Night Vale it was extremely unlikely that there was a trained medical professional nearby.

His second thought is that he seriously needs a glass of water, so he slides his glasses on and hauls himself out of bed and towards the bathroom. Carlos fills himself a tiny Dixie cup of water, drinks it, does it again. On his third go-round, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The cup goes flying.

That is not the face he woke up with.

It's too gaunt, too pale. Behind his glasses, his eyes are clouded over, like someone with cataracts. _Or a corpse,_ his mind supplies, unhelpfully. He blinks and shakes his head, hoping to clear the image, but when he opens his eyes, he looks just the same. He immediately removes his shirt (not the one he put on that morning, either) to check the state of his wounds. Evidently _someone_ patched him up, as he's covered in bandages. Underneath, the injuries are clean and neatly stitched shut.

The evidence is becoming more damning by the second, though Carlos can hardly even think about the hypothesis it's supporting. Several of the larger injuries are located over major organs and arteries, and any one of them could have been fatal. In conjunction with the others, his survival seems more and more unlikely. Shaking slightly, he raises two fingers to his carotid artery. Unsurprisingly, he has no pulse. He needs to wake up, because he's obviously dreaming. He needs to sit down, because his legs are giving out. He needs to go back in time and make better choices, because all those people who warned him that going to Night Vale would get him killed were completely right.

He flops back down on his bed and tries not to think about the obvious conclusion ( _you're dead oh my god you're dead you're so dead how are you even thinking right now_ ) or what he knows from myths and legends and scary stories about what happens to people like him ( _oh god what if I'm a zombie now do I have to eat brains I don't even like thinking about what goes into hot dogs how could I eat someone's brain_ ). 

He stays like that for a while, mostly staring at the wall while having increasingly unsettling thoughts about his new existence as one of the walking dead ( _I better take that show off the DVR I am not watching that again_ ) and trying to fight down the urge to cry and call his mother ( _yeah great idea genius "hi mom I died in a bowling alley and now I may or may not be a zombie" Carlos you are an idiot_ ). It does have the side-effect of making him realize that he should, perhaps, give Cecil a call -- he doesn't even want to think about what kind of state he must be in if the loss of Carlos' hair was enough to have him run someone out of town.

In the interest of protecting the citizenry (and not at all because he's started to feel some affection for Cecil, as completely unhinged as he is, and really wants to see a friendly face at a time like this, nope), he dials Cecil's number.

"Pick up, pick up," he mumbles as the phone rings. And rings. And rings.

"What kind of cruel joke is this?!" shouts a familiar voice, after about ten rings. He does not sound very good. "To use poor, beautiful Carlos' phone to taunt me about his death?! Steve Carlsberg, is that you? Because I swear to god I will come down there and --"

"Cecil! Cecil, it's me. Carlos."

"What?" His voice cracks. "You-- you're-- you... died."

"Yeah," he says, laughing nervously. "About that. It might be easier if we meet up somewhere. Can you meet me at the Arby's?"

"Yes! Yes, of course! Let me just go ...to the weather."

Of course this is happening on the radio. "Cecil, if you're still working, it can wait."

"It can't."

"If you're sure..."

"I have never been more certain about anything in my life."

"I'll see you there, then."

"Yeppers!" There's a groan Carlos recognizes as the sound of self-hatred. He chuckles at it. Poor Cecil.

* * *

Carlos arrives first, despite being farther from the Arby's than Cecil. He sets himself up on the trunk of his car to wait, watching the road for any sign of him.

He comes racing up the sidewalk instead, the legs of his bell-bottoms flapping in the wind. Despite the fact that it's been stilled, Carlos feels the warm weight of affection settle around his heart as he sees him, this absolute lunatic who would run several miles in tartan trousers in the middle of the desert just to see him.

"Carlos! It's you!" he says as he slows to a stop in front of Carlos and his car. "I was worried I had imagined the whole thing, even after I got Intern Devon to check my phone history. I'm so glad you're okay! Well, sort of okay. I mean, you definitely died. But I'm glad someone revivified you."

"I-Is that something that happens much around here?"

"No, not really. The City Council put a lot of restrictions on it to keep people from avoiding death. But now they've gone and made it a meritocracy anyway! Politicians, am I right?"

"Uh, yeah. Do you know what this means, though? Like, am I going to drop dead at some point? Do I have to eat brains or drink blood or something?"

"Of course not! Not unless you _want_ to eat brains, obviously. It's not mandatory, though. And no, you'll stay alive until something destroys your physical form entirely."

"I'm immortal," Carlos says flatly.

"Basically. You won't get any older or get sick -- if you want to die, you'll have to get ahold of a wood chipper or a shark or something."

"No, I'm good. For now, anyway."

"Good. Someone went through a lot of trouble to bring you back. Do you know who it was? I want to thank them properly, send them a card, get them a muffin basket or ceremonial cornucopia of spider parts, that sort of thing."

"Uh, no. Honestly, if you didn't seem so surprised about it, I would have thought it was you."

"Too bad. Much as I would have liked to -- I _really_ would have liked to -- I don't have that kind of pull with the Council."

"Really? I thought you were The Voice of Night Vale and all that."

Cecil shrugs. "It's _very_ restricted knowledge."

"You don't mind, right? Me being, uh, undead?"

Cecil looks at him, all wide red eyes. "Mind? Why would I mind?"

"I don't know. Just seems like the sort of thing that would throw people off." He looks down at his hands. "So, uh, you still... like me?"

"I don't think I could stop."

Carlos takes his hand, hesitantly but deliberately. Cecil looks like he might faint. "Then...would you stay here with me for a while?"

"For as long as you want," Cecil answers, settling his head on Carlos' shoulder.

"That might be a while, you know, things being what they are."

"The offer stands."

The lights in the sky seem brighter than ever. For the first time, Carlos thinks he might understand what they mean.

**Author's Note:**

> perhaps one day I'll be able to resist filling the prompts about weird shit befalling Carlos
> 
> today is not that day


End file.
